


Women of the Mabinogi

by seekeronthepath



Series: The Mabinogi [2]
Category: Celtic Mythology
Genre: Gen, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3234221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekeronthepath/pseuds/seekeronthepath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supplements to the Four Branches of the Mabinogi from the perspectives of Rhiannon, Branwen, Cigfa, and Arianrhod, respectively. They each follow the plot of the story, but I'm more interested in communicating the voices of the women than having a plot that stands on its own, so they'll make a lot more sense if you've actually read the tales first, in any translation.</p><p>Originally posted as five separate works, but I've combined them because I generally prefer reading chaptered works rather than series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loyal and Loving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And, well, I'm beautiful, and I've cleverness, and above all I was a mystery, and a chase he'd won, and what man would say no to a woman like that? 
> 
>  
> 
> A retelling of the First Branch of the Mabinogi from the perspective of Rhiannon.

I first heard of Pwyll Pendefic Dyfed from Arawn's wife, the queen of Annwfn. She told me how he'd slept in her bed in the guise of her husband for a year and never touched her, and I thought to myself, "Now _there's_ a man worth having." At the time, I was engaged to Gwawl, who I loathed, and I thought a man so loyal as Pwyll, and a prince, and a friend of Arawn, would make a much better husband. So I went looking for a way to get him.

 

As it happened, he and his court ended up on the Mound of Arberth one day, and nowhere is it easier to get to his realm from mine than there, so I dressed myself in fine clothing and saddled up one of my special horses and went for a ride. Well, sure enough I caught his eye, and sure enough he sent someone after me, and of course, they couldn't catch me, for my special horses are special indeed. Now a man might love beauty and he might love wit, but nothing catches his eye so well as a mystery and a chase, and that's what I gave him. A man on foot and a man on horse I let follow me but not catch me, and Pwyll himself rode after me 'til his horse was nearly foundering (which made me a little angry, for I look after horses when I can). Then Pwyll called out "for the sake of he who you love best, stop!" and what opening could be better than that?

 

Well, I stopped, and I told him it was _he_ I loved best, which was no lie, for a loved no man better, and he was fine enough. And I told him I was betrothed to a man I hated, and would far rather marry him. And, well, I'm beautiful, and I've cleverness, and above all I was a mystery, and a chase he'd won, and what man would say no to a woman like that? So he agreed to marry me, and I made arrangements, and a year later we had the feast.

 

Now, I was happy, but Pwyll was far happier than I, and generous in his joy, so when a stranger asked for a boon, he said "anything!", and if not for my wit that would have been the end of us, because the stranger was Gwawl, and the boon he wanted was me as his wife. I called Pwyll fool, for there was nothing he could do but give me away, but I thought, fool and all, we might still make something of it, so I planned a plan and told it to him, and he, loyal and loving, carried it out.

 

At the next wedding feast, there I was sitting by Gwawl when in comes a stranger, no lord but a beggar, with a satchel on his back, and he begs a boon. "What boon do you want?" Gwawl asked, more cautious than Pwyll, but all the beggar asked for was to fill his bag with food, and that could be done easily at such a feast. So and not so, for the beggar was Pwyll, and the bag was of my making, that it never would be full, and half the feast was in it before Gwawl's men gave up in indignation and confusion. "If a great nobleman steps in it and declares it full," the beggar said, "then it will be so," and "Surely _you_ are such a nobleman," I said, and so Gwawl got into the bag.

 

Well, as soon as he was halfway in, Pwyll turned it so he was in it entirely, and tied it up, and called in his men, and passed it around for their kicking. They called him a badger, and beat him half to death, and all the food was with him, so he came out of the bag bruised and stained, and begged a bath before making a new pact with Pwyll. Well, one way or another, we made a pact, that I should marry Pwyll, and compensation be paid, and no further revenge for anyone's insult, which was better than we might have done, and so at last I was married to a man, loyal and loving, if a bit of a fool, who I wouldn't mind living with for the rest of my life, so I call that a good day's work.

 

Pwyll was good to me, and he'd learnt a thing or two from Arawn, so he was a good prince too, but when a year went by with no sign of a child, his council got anxious. And Pwyll, wonderful man, just told them not to worry, to wait another year and then we'd see, and see we did, for a year later I was lying in bed cursing his name, as I birthed my beautiful boy. But I didn't get to love him, my darling child, for as I slept weary from the labour, he was stolen from me, and none could tell where he went. And the cruel and fearful nursemaids wouldn't say that he went missing while they slept, but covered me in a puppy's blood and named me child-killer.

 

How could anyone think I would kill my beautiful boy, my darling child? My husband, loyal and loving, did not, but none spoke for me but he. He refused to turn me away from him, but someone must be punished, and that someone was me. A beast of burden I was, to carry guests from the gate to the castle and tell them my tale of sorrow. In daytime I would weep as I told my tale, weep as I bore them on my aching back, weep as they insulted me, and at night, my loving husband would hold me in his arms as I wept for our beautiful boy, whispering his apologies in my ear, trying to erase the days taunts with honeyed words, the days burdens with sweet caresses. It went on like that for years, until Teyrnon came to the court.

 

He was a vassal of my husband, a lesser lord, and he came with a boy, golden-haired, who he called Gwri - so like Pwyll it broke my heart to see him, a boy like mine would have been. And I told them my tale, and offered to bear them, but the boy refused, and none would do what he would not, so we walked together to the castle, and I was a great lady in their eyes as I had not been in years.

 

At the feast that night, Teyrnon told us a tale, of a monstrous arm that stole colts and gave him a child the night my son was born and lost. Not Gwri son of Teyrnon, but son of Pwyll! For all my years of weeping, I found in me yet more tears, that my sorrows were thus ended. And Pwyll, loyal and loving, he named my son for my tears and sorrow - Pryderi, my darling child, my beautiful boy, my son who was lost and found.

 

He was handsome and fine as a lad, and handsome and fine as a man, and meanwhile Pwyll and I grew older. He died before I did, and I married again, but I never regretted my first choice of husband - after all, if a man loves a mystery, what is better for a woman to love than a man who is loyal and loving? I can't think of a better man than he, my Pwyll, my husband - and to think, if he hadn't met Arawn in the woods, I might never have heard his name. 


	2. White Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no voice, no choice, and all was lost for love of me.
> 
>  
> 
> Branwen's lament for the events of the Second Branch of the Mabinogi

I was the sister of the King of the Island of the Mighty, and that was my doom. They called me fairest, and that was our undoing. One of the three chief maidens of this isle, and I was its destruction. I had no voice, no choice, but all was lost for me.

My brother Bran was King of Britain, so great he could not be encompassed, a bridge over a harsh river, who spoke for eighty-seven years after his death. My brother Manawydan was brother to a king but lord of no land, had soft speech and wise counsel, and bore betrayal without wrath. My half-brother Nisien could make peace between any foe, but he was not there when we needed him. My half-brother Efnisien, mirror of Nisien, made trouble wherever he went, and led us into chaos and war, dooming us even as he saved us.

Ships came to Harlech, thirteen ships from Ireland, bearing the hosts of Matholwch, to beg for me as his bride. My brothers gave me to him, all but Efnisien, who was not there. Had they waited, would the alliance stand?

Matholwch slept with me, and we feasted, while Efnisien, insulted to hear of my marriage second-hand, avenged his anger on Matholwch’s horses. Cruel wrath, that he would maim them with harsh cuts: their lips to the teeth, their hair to their backs, their ears to their heads, their eyelids to the bone – so did he maim them. Had he been kinder, would the Irish still have hated me?

Matholwch heard of the insult, and made for home; Manawydan went to persuade him, offering new horses for every one maimed. Seeing Matholwch listless, Bran gave more in recompense: as much as he would ask, and a silver rod, and a golden plate, and a cauldron that would make warriors of corpses. Had Bran sought counsel, would he have given such gifts in compensation? Had he not done so, would our men have died?

Matholwch took me to Ireland as his wife and queen. I gave gifts, and they were thankful. I smiled upon them, and they called me fair. I bore a son, and was beloved – but it did not last. Could I have won them over?

Matholwch’s men taunted him with the insult of my half-brother, until he rejected me. No wife, no queen was I, no sister to a king. I was a kitchen maid, beaten by butchers, and though Bran did not know it, the alliance was already broken. There was silence on the sea, where before there was commerce and speech. I raised a starling, and told it of my brother and my plight, and bid it go and tell my tale. Had I stayed silent, would Bran have ever known? Had I not acted, would there have been war?

Bran crossed the sea with a forest of ships, and Matholwch was afraid. He fled Bran’s host once, twice, then sought to placate him with gifts. A hundred-pillared house, to hold my giant brother’s form and hosts; the kingship for my son. But the house bore hidden warriors on its hundred pillars, proferred love obscuring hidden hate. Had Bran rejected peace, would the war have been as harsh?

Efnisien travelled with the host, and killed the hidden warriors. We feasted peacefully, Matholwch and my brothers, sharing Gwern, my son among them. But Efnisien, for reasons none can guess, cast Gwern, my son, into the fire. I could not follow after – Bran caught me up, trapped me between his shield and shoulder, and there I watched as battle raged. Had Efnisien stayed in Britain, could we have made a peace? Could I have saved my son? Would he be king?

They fought, Britons and Irish, both my peoples, day after day. The Britons were mighty, but the Irish woke the dead each night with the cauldron that was Matholwch’s recompense. We fought in desperation, until Efnisien broke cauldron and his heart at once, through trickery of his own. Does that redeem him? Had the Irish never gained the cauldron, would more have died, or less?

Five men of Ireland lived, and seven of Britain, and I. My brother Bran, poisoned by a spear, bade us to cut off his head, and bear him home, to hallowed halls where he might yet converse with us, and thence to London, to bury him where he might guard us from new foes. Had we such a guardian in the west, could the Irish had reached us?

Because of my beauty, Matholwch came to Britain for my hand. Because of my kinship, Efnisien insulted Matholwch. Because of that insult, Matholwch broke his alliance. Because of love of me, Bran brought war to Ireland. Because of that war, two islands were devastated. I had no voice, no choice, but all was lost for love of me. Woe is me, that ever I was born: two good islands have been laid waste because of me!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Second Branch of the Mabinogi is often named for Branwen, but she is a remarkably silent character. Rhiannon, the main female character of the first and third branches, and Arianrhod, the main female character of the fourth branch, are both strong, out-spoken women, but Branwen speaks out only twice: to advise Matholwch on the arrival of Bran in Ireland, and the lament "Woe is me that ever I was born: two good islands were laid waste because of me!"


	3. The Man who Caught a Mouse and Called it a Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manawydan was a strange man. I knew him first during the Last Enchantment of Dyfed, and I cannot tell whether it or he was stranger.
> 
> Cigfa's perspective on the events of the Third Branch of the Mabinogi.

I am no great queen, no famous beauty, no storied hero - if my name is known, it is as the wife of Pryderi, son of Pwyll Pen Annwfn, lord of Dyfed - but I have seen many strange things in my life, and the strangest of all was the Last Enchantment of Dyfed.

 

My husband returned from Bran's war with Ireland in sorrow and grief, and brought with him Manawydan, brother of Bran, his friend. Manawydan was brother to a king, but lord of no land, and so my husband offered him the hand of Rhiannon his mother, and the use of Dyfed his kingdom. If it seemed a little over-generous to me, I said nothing, and certainly Rhiannon did not object.

 

One day we were on the Hill of Arberth (that place of wonders where Pryderi's father first met Rhiannon), and a great enchantment fell over the land, so that there was not house or home left in it, nor living person, but only wilderness. We wandered the land for weeks, surveying the changes, but there was no-one left but us. We lived on wild meat, and fish, and honey, which the men-folk didn't mind, but I found wearisome. I missed good bread and fine wine, but I said nothing, and eventually they tired of the wilderness.

 

We went to England, and on Manawydan's advice the men found work as shield-makers, but they were so determined to out-do all others that they got into trouble with the other craftsmen. Rather than fight, Manawydan persuaded Pryderi to flee - a strange warrior he, who flees the wrath of craftsmen. The next town it was the same, except their craft was saddling, and the third town the same again, but here they were shoemakers. If I thought we could avoid trouble better by avoiding a reputation in the first place than by fleeing its consequences, I said nothing, and we retuned at last to Dyfed.

 

It was as wild and empty as before, and soon got emptier. One day Pryderi and Manawydan went hunting, and only Manawydan came back. I wept, but Rhiannon berated him, and left in search of her son. She did not return either, and I was left alone in Dyfed with Manawydan, who I had never understood. He promised me his help and friendship, for love of Pryderi, and we took ourselves back to England. If I thought it strange that he remained, while Rhiannon and Pryderi were lost, I said nothing, and by mutual agreement, we did not speak of their loss.

 

Of all the crafts in the world by which to earn his living, Manawydan chose to return to shoe-making, though it is a dirty and demeaning craft. And again, he excelled so that none would by from his competitors, until they were enraged and plotted against him. And rather than fight them, he gathered our goods and bought grain for the planting, and left the town behind. I spoke against the shoe-making, in defense of his honour, and spoke for resistance against the shoe-makers, as my husband had, but I was not heard, and we returned to Dyfed much as we had left it, but richer for the grain.

 

He planted the wheat, and tended it until it grew the best of any I had seen - strange prince, that rules no land! Strange warrior, that will not fight his foe! Strange man, that excels at all skills, but chooses shoe-making and farming! Three fields he tended, until they stood golden, ready for the harvest. But overnight the first field was lost, and the next night the second, and Manawydan swore he would watch for the cause. The third night, he stayed at the field, and returned to me at last with a mouse he declared a thief, and was determined to hang. I advised him to let it go, to avoid the disgrace of bothering with a mouse, but I was not heard, and he took it with him the next day when he went out.

 

He returned without the mouse, but with Rhiannon and Pryderi, and a tale none could tell the truth of if not he. He said the mouse was the pregnant wife of a magician whose friend had been insulted by Pwyll's father, and the magician had been the cause of the enchantment, the loss of Pryderi and Rhiannon, and the ravaging of our fields, all in revenge for that insult. He said that he had bargained the mouse for the restoration of the land, and the return of Rhiannon and Pryderi, and the story of the enchantment, and no further enchantment on Dyfed, and no revenge on us. If I thought it a strange tale, I said nothing, and we all rejoiced to be reunited in a peopled country.

 

That was not the first or last of the strange things Manawydan lived, or told us of; nor was it the strangest part of my husband's life, nor my mother-in-law's; and when I consider it, what I saw was not, perhaps the strangest thing I have seen. But it stands in my memory as the strangest tale I can tell: the gifted lordship of Manawydan; the wilderness of Dyfed; a lord who hid his nobility among craftsmen, though not his skill, and fled their enmity; and a man who traded a mouse for a prince and a queen and a kingdom - or so he told us. If I wondered at the part he truly played, I said nothing, and I would not be heard anyway.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do this from Cigfa's perspective, not Rhiannon's, because Rhiannon is the key female figure of the First Branch, and because Cigfa is present throughout the tale. But when I started to consider what role she had and what she had seen, I realised that Manawydan's unconventional choices would seem even more bizarre without the full context that the third person narrator gives us.
> 
> The difference in mood to my story _White Raven_ reflects the difference in mood between the original tales - I'm aware the two might seem a little incongruous put next to each other right now, but what I have in mind for the First and Fourth Branches should smooth that out a bit.


	4. Lady of No Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some say I have a brother, and an uncle, and two sons, but I call no man kin, for they brought me naught but shame. 
> 
> A supplement to the Fourth Branch of the Mabinogi, from Arianrhod's perspective

Some say I have a brother, and an uncle, and two sons, but I call no man kin, for they brought me naught but shame. My uncle, Math, was a king, and declared he could not live (except in war) without his feet in the lap of a maiden, though he would not tell us why. My brother, Gwydion, started a war so that his friend might rape Math’s foot-holder, and though his punishment lasted three long years, he was not repentant. My first son, Dylan, was born when Math publicly tested Gwydion’s claim that I could be his next foot-holder, and showed it was not so. But my second son, he was the worst of the trouble.

My brother put me forward as a potential foot-holder without asking me if I cared to spend my days at a king’s feet. When my uncle asked me if I was a virgin, I truthfully told him I knew not otherwise. When he tested it (and oh, could he have not trusted my word? or tested me in private? the doubt was as bad as the truth!), none was more shocked than me to see a baby drop from my loins. I fled. I fled the shock, I fled the shame. I fled the whispers. I fled the laughter and the blame. And that first child, he took to the ocean, and was not often heard of. I could have lived with that.

But as I passed the threshold, I dropped a ‘small something’, or so people have told me, and my brother caught it up, and kept it in a chest until it became a boy. That something, that would have been forgotten, was nurtured by my brother until it was living proof of my shame. He was not content for it to be forgotten, he who was cause of it all. No, he must make a child of it, must mother it himself, must thrust it in my face and bid me name it. Name the memory of that day, so it might be remembered by others? I would not do that, nor would I let another do it in my place. “He shall never have a name unless given by me,” I told him, and no name would I give to my shame that it might become a child in anyone’s eyes.

But my brother tricked me, and tricked a name from me. Lleu Llaw Gyffes, the child was now, and he could not be unnamed. He was a golden child, but I could see nothing in him but the disrespect of my brother and the humiliation it brought me. And my brother boasted to me, showed off his trickery, triumphed that he had won a name from me. Very well, I thought, if he must be a child in the eyes of all, then at least I might prevent him from being a man. “He shall never have weapons unless given by me,” I told Gwydion.

But my brother tricked me again, and tricked weapons from me this time. Armed by my hand, the youth was now, and it could not be undone. He was a doughty lad, but still I could see nothing in him but the disrespect of my brother and the humiliation it brought me. And again my brother rejoiced in his trickery, thrust it in my face like the insult was another victory. Very well, I thought, if he must be a man in the eyes of all, then at least I might prevent him from having a child, and being remembered. “He shall never have a wife of the races of the earth,” I said to Gwydion, and since I did not give myself a place in the curse, I didn’t hear from him again.

But years later, I came across an owl with the signs of magic on her, and gave her speech, and she told me of the marriage and fate of he who had been my son, and I almost wish my brother had come back to me with his tricks, rather than making this poor girl for such a life.

He had made her from flowers, he and my uncle, to be a wife to Lleu, and no choice was she given. When she strayed, when she betrayed him (and what a fool he turned out to be, that he could be so easily tricked by the tears of a pretty woman!) they did not think on her prison of a marriage, but gave an equal half of the blame to her as they did to he who struck the dreadful blow. _He_ was merely killed. _She_ was transformed again, after scarce years of human living, into a bird doomed to spend the rest of its life in darkness. She told me she did not mind it. She had never quite gotten used to being human, so another change was little loss. But it made me angrier still at Gwydion.

He got no victory, this time. His wife for Lleu had scorned him and betrayed him, and there would not be another. There would be no sons for Lleu, no daughters, no singing of him memory, no tellings and retellings of my shame. But I did not taunt Gwydion with my victory. No, I was happy in my castle, with Bloddeuwedd as my companion, calling no man kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure how coherent this is, but I wanted to get across a sense of Arianrhod's (justified) anger, and the profound and universal disrespect for women in this branch. Arianrhod is unique in the Four Branches in having a castle (and by extension, we ought to assume land) of her own, and is politically independent in a way even Rhiannon isn't, but her kin, and particularly her brother Gwydion, still have the power to seriously wrong her, and they do.


	5. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Women from the Mabinogi gather together after everything, in Caer Arianrhod.
> 
>  
> 
> Just a short coda to my retellings from the women's perspectives, where the women talk about the past.

They sat, noble ladies all, in the hall of Caer Arianrhod. Cigfa was there, and Rhiannon, and Bloddeuwedd as an owl. The queen of Annwfn, the wife of Teyrnon. It was Arianrhod who had called them there. “I call no man kin,” she had said, “But I would welcome all of you to my home.” And so they came, and so she did.

“Poor Branwen,” Cigfa sighed, youngest of them all (except for Bloddeuwedd, but she was a special case, and strangely ageless). “I visited her grave on my journey here. It was not fair, what happened to her.”

Rhiannon snorted. “At this age, fy merch, I don’t know why you think any of us get what is fair. You’ve been lucky, is all.”

The others nodded ruefully. “Much of my luck is due to you,” Cigfa pointed out. “Your husbands and your son did well by Dyfed.” She dandled a baby on her lap, born in that last war with Gwynedd.

“I would wish that my brother and uncle had done as well by Gwynedd,” Arianrhod put in bitterly, “if any good was to be had by wishing.”

Bloddeuwedd hooted softly and rubbed her face against Arianrhod’s. They were a strange pair, those two. “Worse things have happened to better people, Arian. And you have always done well by yours.”

There were few who would disagree with that. Ynys Kedeirn was fractured (poor Branwen), Dyfed was relying on a regency (thank God for Rhiannon), and Gwynedd didn’t seem to know what would happen next (a curse on Gwydion). But Caer Arianrhod stood strong, and for today, was a haven for the strong women of Britain, and their tragedies.

**Author's Note:**

> Rhiannon is a very strong woman, and very clever. She is a Lady of the Otherworld, powerful in her own right, and has strong mythological ties to Epona (goddess of horses) and Rigantona (goddess of sovereignty). Pwyll, by contrast, is an ordinary man in extraordinary circumstances.


End file.
